(Additional Trigger Warning for this episode (beyond what is to be expected): depictions of torture, PTSD symptoms)
"Sir, in here!" A man from his security detail waved him though an open door, heavy gunfire whistling past their ears and shaking the air like thunder. As soon as Mycroft got through the archway, the door was swiftly slammed shut behind him.
Mycroft coughed the dust out of his lungs and rubbed his eyes, glancing around the small and cluttered storage room before focusing his attention on the personnel currently leaning against the door and panting as his nerves calmed down. They were both very lucky to have been near enough to a closet that was attached to the courtyard the negotiating parties had been in, Mycroft was sure things would already be over for himself otherwise.
"It was an ambush!" The guard spoke in a dumbfounded manner to himself between pants, straightening up to turn and glare at the door accusingly. Mycroft sighed inwardly at the man's ability to state the obvious, but know that the attendant wasn't actually speaking to him at the moment. He glanced over the guard and quickly deduced that he had a fairly happy life at home with his wife and three children, although the new puppy he'd just gotten for them (to make up for the extra hours he had recently been spending at work to make sure the bills could be covered while paying off the new car they had been forced to buy), hadn't been a walk the in the park lately. Martin Green; the metal nametag that hung slightly skewed on his suit had some dents and dings in it, suggesting that he's had this job for at least three years... no, the top left corner was just starting to show hints of oxidization- make that four years. But the man loved his job and was proud of the work he did.
Mycroft looked around the claustrophobic room again, noting that there was only a single small slit of a window built in to provide light. There were no other windows or alternative exits. Trapped. His brain glitched between flashbacks of being trapped in a similar closet during his more active days as an agent, though that room had involved a lot more pain and his hands being trapped behind his back and- he shook his head to clear the memories as best he could and let his eyes pivot back to the single door leading to the chaos in the dusty streets of the unnamed town he had come to to help with peace negotiations that couldn't seem to avoid breaking down every other hour, though this was by far the most extreme case thus far of the negotiations failing.
"Sir, we have to get you out of here." Green turned his attention to Mycroft fully, eyes flickering away from the politicians face and taking in the darker shadow that washed down his black jacket, eyes widening when he realized it wasn't a shadow but a bullet hole, cutting through the man's right shoulder and washing the dark fabric in blood.
"Sir!" Mycroft raised his eyebrows with one of his patented exasperated looks, as if waiting expectedly for the frazzled security to panic further and already tired of his unprofessional behavior.
"My adrenaline is doing quite a sufficient job of keeping the pain at bay." Mycroft was not entirely lying- while the pain was great, he knew that his body was currently helping him avoid feeling the worst of it, and that expressing his suffering would only do to distract from the current objective. "A simple gunshot wound such as this is certainly not our top priority at the moment anyway, correct?" His cool tone refocused Martin, earning a somber but determined nod.
"They must be here to attack the convention." The guard's lips thinned in focus and he put his ear to the door to listen as the barrage of gunfire died on the other side.
Obviously. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes but kept his thoughts to himself. No need to provoke the man who had saved him from becoming Swiss cheese on the street. Instead, he busied himself with using his left hand to pull his handkerchief from his pocket, scrunching it up and holding it to the hole in his shoulder to provide some kind of resistance to the blood trying to use the injury as it's method of escape.
They both stood in silence for several minutes, the only sounds they could hear were each others breathing and their own heartbeats. The minutes dragged on into half of an hour, at which point both men had made themselves as comfortable as possible on the dirty floor, waiting for any signs of a change to their situation- good or bad. The air, which had already been thick and stifling when they first threw themselves in here, had continued to grow hotter as the full heat of the sun had begun to warm the desert region. Mycroft felt the sweat beading up and dripping down his face as if someone had poured water over his head. He removed his suit jacket, not caring about appearances in the situation, and loosened his tie, leaning back against a heavy wooden crate and trying to imagine how nice a breeze would feel in this moment. His shoulder had started to throb in earnest, the burning, stabbing, twisting pain radiating down his arm and into his chest, his breath shifting the attached muscles and making each inhale and exhale feel like a knife entering the wound.
"Tell us where the chancellor sent our information and we'll stop." Mycroft's jaw throbbed and he shook his head to try to clear it from the fog that had encroached when the punch had been strong enough to knock over the chair he was tied to. He wasn't sure how he wasn't knocked out, but he was sure that he would now require a doctor when he got home. If he got home. No, he would get home. He had to. Sherlock was leaving for university in two years and he had to make sure he was there to see that. Mycroft slowly turned his head back to the man now above him. His lips, although torn and busted, were set in a hard scowl, unyielding to the techniques used thus far.
A single light bulb swung from the ceiling of the small closet-like room, illuminating both himself and the two captors currently in the room while throwing shadows across the room wildly. The man standing in the corner silently removed something from his pocket, handing it to the beast who stood in front of Mycroft's chair. It didn't take a genius to recognize a whip. The man grinned down at him as he unfurled it.
"Just tell us what we want to know." Mycroft scowled at him, determination and defiance shining in his eyes as he watched the beast raise his arm through his peripheral vision.
He felt himself twitch as the sound of a whip cracking filled his ears, eyes snapping open to see he was alone besides the unassuming security detail. His shoulder burned and his back ached from the body memories that seemed to have taken hold through his haze.
Another half hour found the pair in a similar state, though Martin was now glancing towards the politician with increasingly concerned looks. While the tall and professional negotiator had yet to lose consciousness, his breathing had become more labored, his rigidly upright posture now slumped against storage boxes while his left arm shook with the continued exertion of holding pressure against his shoulder. Green had offered twice to help with applying pressure and had been refused twice, the other man clearly not wanting physical contact. There seemed to be something else there too, as every once in awhile the government figure would inhale sharply, his body tensing, and his eyes darting around the room in alarm and confusion. It was only once he saw Martin that his posture would relax, his eyes fluttering shut, and his head lolling to the side again- as if the attendant was the only thing keeping him grounded to his surroundings and reality. It was disturbingly obvious that he needed help.
Martin stood with determination and began pacing back and forth across the closet floor, two steps one way- turn- two steps back- repeat. Continuing for several minutes while keeping a worried eye on the other man. He had opened his eyes at first to observe Greens behavior but after just a minute or two his eyes had slipped shut again, exhaustion pulling his body to slouch even farther, as if he were slowly collapsing in on himself. He may not have much time left. Martin felt his feet stop suddenly, glancing at the door before staring at the politician in determination.
"I'm going to check it out." Green announced in a stead-fast voice, shoulders squaring up as he prepared himself to leave. Mycroft's eyes flickered open, blinking several times while he turned his head, eyebrows scrunching in confusion.
"Hold on a moment." Holmes objected just in time to make the security guard pull his hand back from the doorknob. He tried to move his legs to get them under him in an effort to stand up but found that they were now asleep, the twitches enough to send tingly pain through his back and stab into his shoulder. He clenched his jaw and inhaled sharply but schooled his features as quickly as possible, refocusing on the guard who's resolve seemed to have doubled due to Mycroft's failed efforts. "It's likely that they're waiting out there for people to make that exact mistake. You'll get yourself killed and that won't be of any help to anyone, especially not your family. You have children to take care of."
Green's mouth drew up into a long, flat line, eyes glaring at nothing in particular as he considered the politicians words. He didn't seem to question or notice the government worker's knowledge of his family, despite the fact that from Green's perspective, they had yet to even learn each other's names. Mycroft could see that the motivation had not dissipated yet, the gears still turning in his mind convincing him to go on an obviously suicidal mission.
"Now is not the time for heroics. It is the time to sit and wait for reinforcements to arrive." Mycroft continued, trying to appear as powerful and all-knowing and intimidating as he usually did, but knew that his heavy breathing and waxy complexion would do nothing to help his argument. But he knew that the chances of either of them surviving would not be good if Martin Green went out there. At least right now there was a small chance that the shooters hadn't seen the pair of them slip into the closet during the commotion.
Martin soaked in his words, taking in the man's complexion and clear exhaustion- despite the politicians quiet efforts to seem fine, his brows had knit themselves together with pain and his breaths were labored and sharp. What was the chance that he would die here, especially without getting help?
"I'm sorry, sir, but you need help. And I need to make sure everyone is okay. It's my job." Martin gave him a small, genuine smile for reassurance and resisted putting his hand out to console the man who was staring at him with unmasked worry, the concern and desperate, silent pleas not being lost on the security guard. "My name is Martin Green by the way, sir. What's yours?"
Mycroft studied the man in front of him intensely, knowing that his mind was made up and that despite all attempts to stop him, there was no way to prevent what was about to happen. And it was his fault. He was showing too much weakness. The guard felt the need to help him, at the risk of his own life, and Mycroft could do nothing to stop him. If he died, it was because Mycroft was weak.
"Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft let go of the handkerchief on his shoulder and ignored the scorching sear of the nerves being bothered, reaching out to shake his hand, hoping that Green wouldn't be insulted by the left-handed handshake. Green didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest however, his smile broadening and eyes sparkling as he took Mycroft's hand in his and shook it gently. Both men trying to convey their own messages through the contact. Martin, happy for the trust and hoping to assure the politician that he would soon be safe and well; Mycroft, silently pleading with the guard not to leave, to consider his wife, his three young children, his own life, to not risk his life for the life of one man who nobody cared about.
"I'll go get help for you, Mycroft Holmes. It's going to be okay." Green gently pulled out of the embrace and slowly moved Mycroft's hand back to the cloth over his wound, careful not to jostle him but wanting to make sure the pressure was reapplied before he left. Mycroft could do nothing but catch his breath from the exertion the handshake had taken and fight through another wave of dizziness, eyes shifting in and out of focus as he watched the security officer slowly twist the door handle and open the door.
Mycroft felt the world spinning as Green glanced around, peeking out of the doorway. When the coast seemed clear, Martin stepped out, quickly disappearing from Mycroft's view as he entered the courtyard. He listened carefully to the slowly fading footsteps, focusing over the sound of his own heart hammering in his ears.
Step.
Step.
step.
step.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat as the sharp cry of a gun cut through the silence. And listened with silent horror as the courtyard returned to silence once the gunshot echoes had faded. He held his breath, waiting for the sound of footsteps, waiting for one of the terrorists to climb down from wherever they had positioned themselves and come investigate the open closet someone had just appeared from, waiting for them to find him and aim a gun at his head.
"You are quite tough, aren't you?" The man who usually stood in the corner was now kneeling next to him, a revolver in his hand as he looked over Mycroft's broken form. He nonchalantly eyed the weapon, loading a single bullet into the chamber before casually spinning the cylinder. "If you will not talk, however, you are of no use to us."
Mycroft barely flinched as the gun was held to his forehead, exhaustion overwhelming him and making consciousness a struggle. Everything hurt. And nothing hurt. He was barely aware of his surroundings, let alone his injuries. There were too many to categorize. He wasn't sure how long he had been in that room now. He doubted that anyone was coming for him and all he could think was that he wished he could be with Sherlock. Sure, they hadn't gotten along for a last few years, but he always did everything he could to look after him. His ears barely registered the click of the hammer falling forward, but he felt himself refocusing as his brain screamed that he was being shot.
He felt his breath catch as he stared at the gun and then at his interrogator. There hadn't been a bullet. His heart hammered in his chest, beating against a bruised sternum.
"Any second thoughts? Now that you have another chance?" The gun was pressed against his forehead again, pressing him down into the grime-covered floor. Mycroft felt his mind drifting again, back to playing with Sherlock in the creek near his childhood home, looking at bugs and fish and other creatures while Sherlock rattled off facts about each of them- Mycroft assisting him whenever he got stuck on some information before going back to contentedly listening to the child babble.
The click of the hammer caught his attention again and this time he barely spared a glance towards the captor before drifting off again. He heard the click of the hammer being set back.
Overwhelming pain and dizziness filled his ears before he registered anything else, the gun going off next to his head with the bullet lodging in the wall across from him. His ears rang as he felt warmth begin to flow down his face, his ear, his eardrum must have burst. The captor was moving, standing, leaving the room, shutting the door for who knows how long, until they felt like torturing him some more or finally killing him. Mycroft's thoughts went to Sherlock and he wasn't sure which option he would prefer anymore.
His eyes refocused on the open door, dust blowing by as the outside breeze kicked up dirt but did nothing to the stifling air in the closet. He couldn't close the door on his own, lest the attackers realize there was more than just the now dead security guard in the room. He couldn't move, not that there was anywhere to move to, his legs felt useless and his head wouldn't stop spinning now, vision darker around the edges than he knew it should be. He was a sitting duck.
Hours passed, the heat continued to rise and Mycroft found that staying awake was a challenge he wasn't winning. At some point his arm finally slipped from his shoulder and he didn't have the energy to pick it back up. His head fell back to rest against the top of a box and he couldn't summon the energy to lift it. His chest hurt. His mouth was cracking from the dry heat, occasionally offering liquid to moisten it, though it wasn't something he should be swallowing. He could feel nausea welling up in his stomach from the blood and stress, but knew his body didn't have the power to do anything about it.
Think of home. Think of Sherlock. What is he doing right now? What trouble is he causing? I hope John is continuing to help him. Sherlock needs him. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. The name repeated in his head like a mantra until unconsciousness finally overtook him like a thick fog, unnoticed until it was too late to do anything.
"Holmes! Holmes!" Someone was shaking him and all Mycroft wanted to do was sleep. Why couldn't they just let him sleep. Please. Everything hurt. Why couldn't they just kill him already? He wouldn't talk, and they knew it. Maybe they were going to let him die of dehydration, not willing to waste a bullet on him. But why did they have to wake him up? Let him sleep, let him dream of Sherlock until he drifted into nothingness.
"Mycroft! Wake up. Please!" He felt the strongest tendrils of exhaustion release as he felt a gentle hand trying to shake him without irritating any injuries, but it seemed like even the mystery person was quickly realizing that wasn't possible. "Mike!"
Mycroft felt his eyes crack open as his ear screamed in pain, though the darkness that swam throughout his vision made it impossible for him to see what was in front of him. His ears rang and he could feel warmth starting to flow again, though this time it dripped into his hair and down the back of his neck.
"Oh, thank god!" The man's voice seemed to quiet a bit, perhaps he noticed the injury to his ear. "Mycroft, it's Sam Harley. We're going to get you out of here."
Sam? How did he get here? Was he being rescued?
"Don't worry, Mike, we're getting out of here." He felt pain erupt around his body as he was jostled, was he being picked up? "We're going to get out of here and get you help. You'll see a medic and get fixed up and then you can see your little brother again."
He could feel movement, though the world seemed to spin and his nerves screamed at him to stop irritating his injuries. But at the mention of his brother, he couldn't help the moan of a response that escaped his throat.
"Yeah, you want to see your brother again, right? Mycroft? What's his name again?" Movement continued but the voice of whoever he was with... Sam? was gentle and even.
"Sherlock." He found himself answering the question, the pain fading as a slow peacefulness began whittling away at his consciousness again.
"Right, Sherlock. You're going to see Sherlock again, okay? Mike? Hey! Mycroft... mycroft..." The voice faded away again, leaving him in the cool darkness he had been hoping for over the last unknown amount of time.
"Sir... sir..." A hand was gently shaking his unharmed shoulder. "Over here! We found someone!" Mycroft blearily looked up at the soldier kneeling beside him. "Sir, can you hear me? What's your name?"
"M-" Mycroft felt his lip crack upon flexing and winced. The soldier quickly offered a water bottle, pouring some onto his lips before giving him a sip, knowing that giving over the water bottle could lead to the man chugging it and making himself sick. Mycroft gratefully took the sip and let it sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.
"Mycroft Holmes." He felt more than hear his voice rasp out cooperatively to the soldier in front of him. The uniformed man nodded with understanding and gave him the water bottle while reaching for his radio.
"We've got a Mr. Mycroft Holmes in here. He's been shot in the shoulder." The man spoke concisely into the device while watching as Mycroft carefully drank from the bottle, conscious of not drinking too much too quickly and shocking his system. Once he felt his head clearing, the dark circle around his vision fading, he gave the bottle back with a thankful nod.
"Sir, we have to get you out of here. Can you stand?" Mycroft nodded once more in response, slowly regaining his official air to him as he flexed his legs and set about the task of standing up with the help of the young man next to him. As embarrassing as he found it to need help for so simple a task, he knew that further humiliation would be caused if he tried to stand on his own and fell. Better to simply accept the lesser of two evils and wrap his good arm around the soldier's neck. He slowly staggered out of the broom closet, arm still wrapped around the man who was supporting most of his weight, legs screaming in protest at every step and shoulder flaring up, sending knives into his arm and chest and jaw whenever he moved.
"Sir, we have a helicopter here to evacuate you." The soldier's voice was heard but didn't register, Mycroft found himself staring at a body sprawled in the dirt, the sand around it muddy and the clumps of hair and other matter splattered around the crater where half of the head was missing. He was going to be sick. His fault. It was his fault. He kept walking with the soldier, knowing that he was the only one walking away because he was weak.
Martin Green. Holmes made a note in his head to track down the man's family and make sure they got a livable sum for his sacrifice. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough. That man should be going home to his wife, his children who were too young to get the news they would receive tonight, his dog who wouldn't understand why he hadn't returned. He had a family. Unlike Mycroft Homes. Who had nobody. For whom the only person he cared about had hated him for the last two decades, for whom the only person he had to take care of now had someone else to take care of him.
"Sir, we need to go now." The young man pulled Mycroft out of his thoughts and led him toward the outside of the building as quickly as they could manage, the helicopter ready to pull away with all of the few survivors who had been found.
"Sherlock." Mycroft walked briskly into the apartment of 221b Baker Street. His brother was sat in his usual spot, staring into space as the other man entered the room. John was at work, it seemed. He was glad that Watson had found another position at a local clinic and hoped that Sherlock didn't ruin it this time- at least not as quickly as he had last time,
"Oh, wonderful. You're back from another party abroad." Sherlock's voice dripped with loathing sarcasm, the detective's disdainful glare only enunciating the annoyance and dislike coming from the younger of the two brothers.
"It was not a party, brother dear." Mycroft sighed as he corrected his sibling and sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, umbrella in his left hand and manila envelope in his right.
"Oh, I'm sorry, organized pocket-lining meeting." Sherlock scoffed, his thin fingers snatched his violin from the side of his chair and began plucking sour notes, enjoying the distaste and discomfort that showed up clearly on his brother's face. The elder Holmes simply repeated his sigh before lifting his arm and holding the envelope out towards Sherlock.
"I think this will be of some interest to you." Sherlock eyed it like it was a bag of dog poop, disgust rolling off of him in waves.
"Boring." Sherlock rolled his eyes and plucked another note.
"Sherlock, I don't have time for this." Mycroft's voice dripped with irritation, the pain from his shoulder slowly building up and causing his voice to become sharper and more impatient. He knew that he shouldn't be holding anything up with the arm that was still healing, but doing otherwise would be suspicious.
"Oh, come on, Mycroft! You could solve whatever case that is if you'd only get out of your office and do a little legwork." Sherlock picked three more notes, watching as each worked as scissors to cut through another thread of his brother's patience.
"I assure you, Sherlock, that's not possible at the moment. Though, likewise, you could solve the case if you would simply accept it. Maybe it could even get you out of this musty apartment." Mycroft knew the last jab wasn't necessary but couldn't help but feel a little satisfaction when Sherlock's eyes flashed with anger. Mycroft pointedly withdrew the envelope before holding it out again with a more aggressive flourish.
"How's the diet?" Sherlock plucked at his instrument, know that even when he had no retort to Mycroft's wit, he could still stir his brother up by making a personal dig.
"Fine." Mycroft's voice grated with aggravation, jaw clenching as he glared at his uncooperative sibling.
"Oh, it can't be going too well, you've gained a few pounds since I saw you last." Sherlock's gaze raked slowly over his brother up and down, a malevolent smile thinly draw across his face. Mycroft's lips twisted into a scowl. He knew Sherlock was right, but being confined to bed-rest had messed with his exercise regime.
"Too much cake?" Another sour note cried from the violin. "Maybe if you did some legwork, you'd lose a pound or two."
Something about Sherlock's words had images of Martin Green's body flooding into Mycroft's head and it took all of his willpower to keep from having an outward reaction. Martin should be with his family. His family that loves him. Instead the world is stuck with you. No amount of willing the images of the corpse to go away worked, the images of the corpse with half a head- the rest of it scattered under foot or turned into mist. Mycroft could feel his stomach churning. He had to leave before the reaction became too physical.
Mycroft sighed, portraying to all who observed him, a tired and frustrated man who was simply fed up with dealing with his sibling. He stood up, gripping his umbrella tightly, and threw the envelope into his brother's lap in a swift series of fluid movements, turning without another glance toward his brother and exited the apartment. "Good day, brother mine."